


Starshine

by kelios



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Pie, M/M, Sam's Birthday, Schoomp, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 10:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18809644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelios/pseuds/kelios
Summary: Sam's not a big fan of his birthday, and this year starts off as no exception.





	Starshine

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is so late...I might have GRRM beat when it comes to slow af writing. But I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Sam wakes up alone, the side of the bed Dean prefers no longer occupied or warm. It had become a common occurrence when the bunker was full of people, but Sam has never gotten used to it, and he misses Dean’s soft, messy bedroom hair and thick lashes blinking sleepily at him more than usual this morning. 

Of course, Dean being up early should mean _coffee_. 

The thought of Dean’s coffee--thick, rich, and brewed exactly the way Sam likes it--is enough to get Sam out of bed and stretching as he ambles down the hallway toward the kitchen. He’s halfway there when he realizes there’s no tantalizing aroma drifting toward him. 

Quite the opposite, actually. 

Sam doesn’t mean to enter the kitchen with a slight grimace on his face, but Sam’s luck is mostly shit these days so that’s exactly what Dean sees as he turns around, the smile on his face fading instantly. 

“I’m sorry, dude,” Dean says, sighing in frustration. Sam takes in the mess in the kitchen--unrecognizable ingredients strewn all over the counters, various bowls and pans filling the sink. “I tried, I swear to God. But I just can’t make this shit--” he tosses a bowl of batter toward the sink in defeat--”edible.” 

“Dean…” Sam steps forward, slightly baffled. “What are you doing? What is all this?”

 

Dean gives him a look. “Don’t tell me you forgot, because I won’t believe you.” 

Sam groans inwardly. Every year he hopes Dean will forget, but Sam’s aforementioned luck never gives him a break. Still, he appreciates the effort, and he pulls Dean into his arms. “No, I didn’t forget,” Sam tells him fondly. He licks a bit of batter off Dean’s cheek, wanting to lighten the mood, and can’t help the sound of horrified disgust that he makes. 

Dean groans, head dropping to Sam’s shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Jack and Mary, they--”

“Why don’t you tell me what this is really about,” Sam suggests, dropping into one of the chairs haphazardly pushed up to the kitchen table. “And what Jack and Mary have to do with it.” It’s hard to force the names past the lump in his throat, the ache in his heart. Sam’s never had good luck, especially with his birthdays, and while their deaths hadn’t happened on the day itself, it’s close enough. 

Dean sighs, rubbing flour and batter coated hands through his hair and creating adorable spikes in every direction--not that Sam would ever tell him that. Dean’s ego is big enough when it comes to his looks and their effect on Sam. “Do you remember that farmer’s market thing we went to a couple of months ago with Mary and Jack? 

Sam smiles, remembering a day that had been mostly normal, when they were a family just doing normal family things. “I was trying to teach Jack about the benefits of fresh produce and a healthy lifestyle,” he says, nodding. “Mary showed up after a hunt and tagged along.” He grins at Dean. “And you made yourself sick eating boiled peanuts, if I recall correctly.”

“Those peanuts were worth getting sick over,” Dean protests. “As you’d know if you’d tried any.”

“I saw the condition of that pot,” Sam says, shuddering. “I don’t think it had been washed this century. But what does any of this have to do with…” He gestures at the mess in and around the sink and stove. 

Dean stands abruptly, but not before Sam sees the faint sheen of tears in his eyes. Sam gives him a moment to collect himself, surprised when Dean returns to the table with an envelope. 

“You tried that hippy lady’s cake,” Dean says quietly, handing the envelope over. “Jack...I guess he heard you say how much you liked it, so he made Mary take him back to get the recipe the next weekend and convinced her to help him figure it out. He wanted to surprise you.”

Sam opens the envelope slowly, trying to steel himself for another heartbreak, but no matter how much he aches inside Sam has learned that it can always get worse. 

_Happy birthday, Sam! Dean and Mary told me about birthdays and I wanted to celebrate with you. I hope you like my cake as much as you liked Marsha’s--Mary has been teaching me how to bake so that I can get it just right. I think I might still be doing something wrong, though, because I don’t think it tastes quite right. It’s not as good as nougat or chocolate. But I’m going to keep trying since you liked the other one so much.  
Love, Jack_

“I...Dean, I--” 

“I know.” Dean’s voice is rough, hoarse. He’s trying to keep his own emotions in check, probably afraid that if he loses it Sam will too. Which is a pretty safe bet, since Sam is hanging on by a thread. 

“I miss them. I miss Mom.” So much loss, so much death. Sometimes Sam feels like he’s drowning in it. 

“I do too,” Dean says, and he doesn’t pull away when Sam grips his hand. “I wish Mary--Mom--could have been here to celebrate with us.”

“And Jack,” Sam says quietly, because as angry as he is over what Jack did, he’s still their family and Sam can’t forget that no matter how much he wishes he could. 

“And Jack,” Dean says at last, but the ache in Sam’s hand is a sure sign of how hard that was for him to say. He clears his throat, blinking rapidly as if he can hide the redness in his eyes by sheer force of will. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get the cake right. I can run to the store and get more stuff and try again if you want.” 

Dean sounds so despondent at the thought that for a brief moment Sam almost gives in to the little brother urge to tease him, but his heart just isn’t in it today.

“I um...have a confession to make,” Sam says instead, a tentative smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “I guess I’m glad it wasn’t too obvious, but I was just being polite at the farmer’s market. That cake was one of the worst things I’ve ever eaten, and if I’d had any idea of what Jack was planning…”

“Oh, thank God,” Dean says, sagging back into his chair with relief. “I really wasn’t sure I was going to be able to choke that down, Sammy. Not even for you.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, his spirits lifted slightly by the thought that Jack and Mary--and Dean--cared enough to want to do this for him. It hurts too, losing them just as they were starting to come together, but he resolutely pushes away as much of the sorrow as he can, enough that he can maybe _breathe_ a little and maybe give Dean something good too. “I’ve got something else you can choke on if you’d rather,” he says, wickedly deadpan, and the shocked look on Dean’s face is so perfect that Sam can’t hold back an actual peal of laughter. 

Which doesn’t stop Dean from shoving back from the table and going to his knees in front of Sam’s chair. 

“De?” Sam’s voice cracks, turning Dean’s name into his old childhood nickname, and Dean shivers at the sound. He slides his hands up Sam’s thighs as he shuffles forward to rub his prickly morning stubble against Sam’s dick, just the right side of deliciously painful through Sam’s worn sleep pants. Blood rushes south so fast Sam feels light headed, one hand clutching the back of Dean’s head, the other digging into the edge of the chair as Dean drags his lips and tongue up the length of Sam’s cock, sucking on the sensitive head where it’s pushing past the waist of his pants. “Dean--shit, I--” 

Dean pulls back with a softly reluctant moan, eyes innocent as he turns them up to Sam. “I can stop if you want?” Dean offers, and Sam honest to God whimpers at the thought. 

“Dean, please--”

“Probably better to wait anyway,” Dean decides casually, like Sam can’t see that his dick is just as hard as Sam’s, and then _stands up_ , leaving Sam speechless and hopelessly turned on. “I wouldn’t want this to go to waste.” 

At first Sam is utterly confused as Dean walks back over to the stove and opens the oven door. The kitchen is instantly filled with the warm, delicious smell of perfectly baked cherry pie, overwhelming the odor of the cake Dean had been attempting earlier. Sam’s mouth waters immediately--he doesn’t have quite the same love of pie that Dean does, but cherry is his favorite and last night’s dinner was a long time ago. He watches, his brain still sex addled and his cock still aching, as Dean cuts two thick slices and adorns them with Sam’s favorite chocolate fudge ice cream before returning to the table. 

“Happy birthday, Sammy,” he says, smiling softly, and Sam just shakes his head. 

“I’m so confused right now,” Sam admits, laughing a little. “But no way am I turning this down.”

“I kinda figured the cake thing wasn’t gonna work pretty early on,” Dean tells him, making appreciative, almost pornographic noises around a mouthful of warm pie. “So I made a spare, just in case.” He turns serious, stabbing the pie with his fork but not actually eating as he does his best to avoid Sam’s eyes. “I--Well, I know birthdays aren’t the best for you. For us. And this year didn’t exactly change that. But I want things to get better. We have a home now--” Sam makes an involuntary sound at that, not ready to forgive the bunker for the crimes it didn’t commit, but Dean keeps going. “We have a _home_ now. I love the Impala and she’s always going to be my girl, but this…” He waves his hand around to encompass the relative luxury of a working kitchen and comfortable beds and amazing water pressure. “I want this to be our home, both of us. I want to try to start making some better memories.” Dean takes Sam’s hand, pries his fingers off the fork he’s clenching tightly enough to turn the tips white, and Sam reluctantly lets him. 

“Even if we don’t stay here,” Dean continues quietly, his thumb running warm circles over the back of Sam’s hand. “I want us to find somewhere that’s just for us. And I want to start making those memories now.” 

Sam does his best not to cry. He hates it, Dean hates it, and it’s sure not the way to start making those good memories Dean wants. So he swallows down the tears, rubbing surreptitiously at his eyes, and tries a bite of the pie to buy himself some time. It’s delicious, as always, and Sam enjoys the pride and satisfaction on Dean’s face as Sam takes another bite before pushing the plate away so that he can concentrate on what he needs to say to Dean.

“Dean--” He’s not sure how to start, how to tell Dean that he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to think of the bunker as _home_. That word has always meant _Dean_ , no matter where he was, and he’s never been more lost than the times Dean wasn’t by his side. “I just don’t know if I can.”

“I know, Sammy,” Dean says quietly. “I still see them sometimes too, you know. I still miss some of them. I’m always going to miss Mom, and maybe Jack too. If you can’t move past that, even after we give it some time, then we’ll find somewhere else. We’ll start over. All that matters is that we’re together.”

“That’s the only thing that’s ever mattered,” Sam agrees, and leans forward to kiss Dean, licking the taste of chocolate and cherries from his mouth. Dean’s eyes are shining with happiness and relief rather than tears when Sam pulls back to take another bite from his own plate, and Sam resolves to find a way to make this, the bunker, work. Dean deserves this, _he_ deserves this. Lucifer and his horrors don’t get to take this away from them. They’ve beaten the devil before, and they can do it again. 

Sam finishes his pie, scraping up every bit of the delicious filling and flaky crust. “I do like you having a kitchen,” he admits, licking his fork clean. He doesn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes track the movement and his own body stirs in response, Dean’s earlier teasing still fresh in his mind. “But maybe we can leave the clean up for later…”

“I could use a shower,” Dean agrees, teeth sinking into his lower lip as his eyes darken. Sam follows him toward the showers, barely noticing the way their footsteps echo in the quiet halls, too caught up in his joy that Dean is here with him, alive and well. 

Sam takes his time opening Dean up after they strip, never more grateful for the never-ending supply of hot water the bunker comes with. Dean’s body is so familiar, every scar and freckle well-known and well-loved, and Sam touches each of them with wonder approaching awe. His lips find his favorite trio of freckles at the base of Dean’s throat, sucking hot blood to the surface in time with the rhythm of his hand, urging Dean on. Dean’s hand tightens in Sam’s hair as he comes with a muffled shout, Sam’s arm an iron band around his chest as he sags slightly, dazed, before Sam pushes into him slow and deep. 

“Dean…” Sam wants to tell Dean how much this means to him, this trust and love and vulnerability that no one else gets to have, but Dean catches his lips again, silence and understanding at once. Sam doesn’t stop the slow grind of his hips, doesn’t give Dean a single moment to adjust. He knows his brother, knows what he likes and what he wants, and he knows that when swears low and harsh against Sam’s lips before dropping his forehead against the wall, when he slaps both hands against the cool tile with a groan--that’s Deanspeak for _don’t stop don’t you dare fucking stop_. 

And Sam doesn’t, not til he’s as deep into his brother as he can get. Only then does he gasp in a ragged breath against the back of Dean’s neck, shift his hands to cover Dean’s, to cover him completely. _Safe_ , Sam thinks muzzily, as much as he can when he’s fucking Dean, touching Dean, kissing Dean. _Gotta go through me first_ and it’s that thought as much as the tight clench of Dean’s body that pulls him over the edge. 

After, when Sam can breathe again, when Dean pushes him back gently (because he knows, somehow. Of course he knows), he scrubs Dean clean again, warm muscle moving like silk under his fingers as Dean indulges him. Goes to his knees so that Dean can wash his hair, eyes closed and head tipped back until Dean guides him forward, slick smear of precome from the bump of Dean’s dick against his cheek rinsed away but still hot against his skin as he takes Dean in. Dean takes his time, knows Sam loves the hot swell of Dean’s dick across his tongue, stretching his lips, pushing into his throat until everything else goes away, until Sam can’t think, only feel. Sam leans against Dean’s thigh until the sparks in his vision go away, turns his head to lick away the drops the water didn’t steal as Dean’s hands stroke carefully through his hair until he can stand, pushed against the wall so that Dean can kiss him slow and deep until Sam comes with a sigh. 

“I think you broke me,” Dean says, a laugh in his voice. “‘M not as young as I used to be.” He tugs Sam out of the shower, tosses him a towel, laughs when it hits Sam in the face because he can’t _not_ look at Dean when he’s like this. 

Sam dries his hair, smirking. “I did all the work,” he points out, then has to dodge Dean’s wet towel. A hundred sleepless nights hit him all at once, exhaustion weighing down his limbs even though they're barely out of bed, and he grabs Dean before he can leave. “Stay with me?” he asks softly, embarrassed by his sudden need. “Missed you this morning.”

Dean hesitates before smiling up at him, but only a moment. “Sure, Sammy. It’s your birthday, whatever you want.”

“That’s a dangerous offer,” Sam quips, but Dean just laughs. 

“Only if I don’t know the person I’m making it to.”

Sam slides under the comforter and turns onto his side, relaxed and happy as he waits for Dean’s warmth against his back. 

“Scoot,” Dean orders instead, and Sam blinks up at him owlishly, his brain already fuzzy. “Come on, Sasquatch.” Dean pushes at Sam’s shoulder gently until Sam gets the hint and moves back from the edge of the bed, making room for Dean. His brother arranges himself carefully against Sam’s chest, pulling Sam’s arm around him as he settles in with a pleased sound. Tears prickle at Sam’s eyes but he blinks them away as he pulls Dean closer. He knows how much it costs Dean to give him this, to give up his role as protector even briefly, even in in sleep. He doesn’t thank Dean with words, only acceptance, pressing his lips to the back of Dean’s neck and drifting off immediately. 

It’s late afternoon when Sam wakes up again. He’s surprised to find Dean still in his arms, still asleep. It’s rare for either of them to let their guard down so completely, physically or emotionally, and he savors the moment, knowing he won’t have long before Dean wakes up too. 

“Sam?” 

Sam’s still wrapped around Dean, unwilling to give up even a single moment or inch before he has to, so it seems a little silly for Dean to be sleepily calling his name. Still, he indulges his big brother. 

“I’m right here.” Low and soft, his breath against Dean’s ear sending a shiver up Dean’s spine that Sam feels all the way down to his toes. 

“Slept the whole day away.” Sam’s pretty sure Dean means to sound grumbly, but it just comes out sleepy and amazed. 

“Needed it,” Sam agrees, and tightens his arm around Dean’s waist. 

“Maybe,” Dean allows, and this time he does manage the grump. “But it feels weird.” He yawns, then turns his head for a kiss that Sam happily provides. 

“It’s been a good day,” Sam tells him, and doesn’t object too much when Dean sits up. “I feel...better. A lot better.” 

Dean stands up to stretch as Sam watches admiringly. “You gonna get out of bed long enough to go make us some lunch? I’m starving.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You want _me_ to cook? And on my birthday, no less.” Maybe it’s actually feeling rested for the first time in longer than he can remember, but Sam feels _good_ , like maybe he won’t drown in the sorrow and guilt that’s been wearing them away for so long. He remembers something he said to Dean, years ago: _there’s a light at the end of this tunnel, Dean. Let me take you there._ Yesterday that thought would have felt as hopelessly naive to him as it no doubt did to Dean all those years ago. Today...today, Dean wants to build a home. Wants to build a life. Wants to make new memories and a fresh start, and the world seems less gray and bleak than it has in a long, long time. 

Sam comes out of his thoughts to find Dean already dressed and watching him with a mix of worry and curiosity. “You all right, little brother?”

Sam shakes his head to clear his thoughts, then rushes to reassure Dean. “Just thinking, that’s all. Maybe...I don’t know. Maybe there’s a light at the end of this tunnel after all.”

Hope casts a cautious light over Dean’s expression, warming Sam’s heart. “Yeah? Well, I hope that light is the stove warming up. Go make us some burgers, bitch.” 

“Jerk!” Sam yells at Dean’s retreating back, and he doesn’t have to see his brother’s face to know he’s wearing the same smile Sam is. 

Sam doesn’t expect to find much in the fridge. It’s been awhile since they made a supply run, so he’s pleasantly surprised to find not only ground beef but also ground tofu and a much wider than usual selection of fresh produce for him to use. Sam sets to work with a much greater will, enjoying the chance to make something for Dean that might slow the hardening of his arteries and no doubt skyrocketing cholesterol. He foregos the requested burgers to put together a veggie lasagna, setting his phone to his favorite radio station and busying himself slicing and dicing and putting together something that Dean will eat that’s still reasonably healthy. He likes this new rhythm that he and Dean have cautiously settled into--this understanding that the best gift they can give each other is themselves, the right to care for and protect without protest. They’re still learning, it’s still the hardest thing Sam’s ever done, but they’re trying. Neither of them can ask for more than that.

Once the pan is in the oven, Sam goes to find Dean. He finds him in the library, doing...something. To the telescope. There are yellowed instruction sheets lying on the floor around him, a tool kit open on the floor with a can of WD-40 next to it. 

“Dean--”

Dean startles, knocking his head against one of the telescope’s many protrusions. “God damn it, Sam!”

“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam doesn’t know whether to be alarmed or amused. They’d always given the telescope something of a wide berth, neither of them sure how to make it functional again, and Sam doesn’t know what to make of Dean’s efforts. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Dean snaps, rubbing the back of his head, then sighs. “I’m trying to get it working so I can line it up,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure I’ve mostly got it, but one of the gears is stuck and I can’t quite reach it.” 

“Let me try.” Sam’s fingers are longer and slimmer than Dean’s, he can probably reach whatever Dean is aiming for. “Just show me what you need me to do.”

Dean grabs one of the yellowed pages, pointing to an antiquated illustration that’s faded almost to illegibility. “I’m pretty sure it’s this one that’s stuck. The lenses are magically enhanced and maintained, but our ancestors, in their infinite wisdom, decided to leave the gears to the mechanics. And now they’re all gummed up with seventy years worth of dust.” 

Sam gets down on his knees, stretching one long arm under the base of the telescope until he can reach the stuck gear. “I can’t believe you managed to get this thing working at all. Those diagrams are a nightmare. Hand me that can.” 

Dean slaps the can of lubricant into Sam’s hand and Sam slowly and a little painfully works the liquid into the stuck gears with the tips of his fingers. His shoulders are aching and his fingers cramping by the time he feels the tiny wheel start to give and pulls back with a sigh of relief. 

“All right, try it now,” he says, shaking out his fingers. Dean pulls a series of levers and presses a few buttons and they both watch with fascinated delight as the ceiling slowly opens and the base of the telescope rises into place. 

“So what’s with the sudden interest in the telescope?” Sam asks curiously, and he’s even more surprised to see Dean blush and rub the back of his neck. 

“I uh. I got you something. Us something. Sort of.” Dean wanders over to a paper strewn table and Sam follows, completely baffled. 

It all becomes clear when Dean shoves an ornate folder into his hands. 

“Star Maps, Inc. Name a star for yourself or your loved one. Give the gift of eternity,” Sam reads, trying not to laugh. “Dean, I--” 

“Open it,” Dean says gruffly, and it’s clear that there’s some meaning here for Dean that Sam’s not getting yet.

Inside the folder is a star map, pinpointing the location of the star that Sam assumes Dean named for him. But it’s--

“It’s a dual star system,” Sam says slowly, understanding finally. “Dual stars are locked in orbit together forever.”

“Can’t live without each other,” Dean adds, half embarrassed and half proud. “Seems about right. And I--Death said to me once. That he’d take me out there. Put me somewhere that I couldn’t hurt anyone else. Figured I might as well have a home if he--she--ever decides to make good.” 

“I’ll never let that happen,” Sam says softly, fiercely. The papers fall from his hands as he pulls Dean in close, suddenly desperate to feel his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest and the warmth of his arms. “You take off, I’m going too. Understood?”

“Understood.” Dean’s voice is muffled against Sam’s shoulder, and Sam pretends he can’t hear the tears clogging the words and that his shoulder isn’t damp when Dean pulls back enough to grin up at him. “Anyway, I figured after we eat your rabbit food, we can train this thing around and check out our new real estate once it’s dark.” He turns around to grab another folder off the table. “I got one for Mary and John too,” he says softly. “I know what they had wasn’t real, that it was just the angels fucking with them and us. But they thought it was, and it should have been. And I want to remember them the way they should have been.” 

“I like that.” Sam takes the folder, heart aching for what could have been, and looks at the twin stars. “John and Mary Winchester...Wait, what did you name ours?” He picks up the papers he’d dropped before and grins. “Winchesterland? Really?”

“Seems like our kind of place, ya know?”

“I think it’s exactly our kind of place--one day.” Sam sweeps his arm round the room, taking in the whole bunker. “But for now, I kinda like it here.” 

Dean smiles, brighter than both of their suns, and it’s everything Sam could have hoped for. “Happy birthday, Sammy.” 

And yeah. For once, it is.


End file.
